Evaporated
by SubwayWolf
Summary: Top Gear. James May awakens after an eventful night with Jeremy Clarkson, deep in regret and hurt with a hangover. Later, James is surprised by a visit from Richard Hammond, who is rightfully concerned. Rated M for slash.


**This took a while and I'm proud of it. It's fairly long but quite good! R&R's greatly appreciated! Enjoy!**

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><p>No clouds. Dry air. Damp grass. Signs of a cold front.<p>

James May sulked around his back garden drowsily, parting the grass with his bare feet in search of weeds. When he caught sight of one of the leafy nuisances, however, he merely blinked and passed it by, for he was in no condition to bend over and eliminate it.

The night before was a lethargic combination of far too much whiskey and the strikingly perfect color of Jeremy Clarkson's eyes. The rest was a hazy fuzz in James' memory but he could easily infer what had occurred.

Jeremy had gone long before James woke up. This sickened James, for weird emotional reasons which he had never experienced before. His mind jumped to wild conclusions like it always did, always making an effort to frighten and anger him, frustrating him constantly.

James had decided that trekking around his garden for a bit would get his mind off of everything but he was wrong. Being away from the mess Jeremy had left just made James want to see it once more. And being alone again made James miss Jeremy more than ever.

James dragged his feet in the grass as he walked back inside. He returned, painfully, to the mess Jeremy had left – the tangled sheets and wet marks and some things the two had knocked over during the course of the night.

He stood alone amongst the mess, fidgeted in his boxer shorts, and tugged at his grey t-shirt. His arse hurt. As he focused hard on this newly-prominent sensation, the discomfort worsened, up to the point where James wished he could forget about it but he could not; the pain wouldn't go away.

It began to burn so badly that James could no longer stand, so he sat on his bed. When he twitched in his seat in an attempt to cool the flames, they returned ever fervently. A groan escaped his throat as he rolled over to his stomach, burying his face in the tousled sheets.

As he sat there with an overtaking amount of physical pain, emotional pain inevitably arose as well. It was the familiar feeling of loneliness, which hit James rather often, but not as hard as it was hitting him now. Still face-down, James put his hands on his head and clutched handfuls of his hair.

His stomach flipped inside of him, and it was then he realized he couldn't really breathe with his face down, so he turned his head and inhaled, exhaled, caught a glimpse of Jeremy's undergarments on the floor, groaned again.

***

_Under the series of lamp's golden glow, a poignant Porsche 911 shone proudly in James May's garage, its round headlamps peering up at the world with curiosity. Beside it was poised a flamboyantly prominent Ferrari 430, a blinding glint ricocheting off its polished, silver bumper as one walked past._

_But manage to avert your gaze away from the German supercar and the Italian beauty, and you lay your eyes upon a miserable Fiat Panda. This shoddy 4-by-4 couldn't be mentioned in the same sentence as 'fashion'. The sight of the Panda, in its dull shade of brown, was so ugly it arose an urge to look away, but at the same time its uniqueness and contradiction to the surrounding vehicles deserved a stare, along with a laugh._

_Jeremy Clarkson, hit gut filled with whiskey and all trace of a mental-to-verbal filter eroded away, had input. He simply shrugged, saying, "Shit," as he looked it over._

_James had been drinking as well, but even with a sober sense of justification, he adored the Italian motorhood of the Fiat – its simplicity and circus-type charm appealed to James in strange ways. He was quick to defend the Panda, but unfortunately he was too drunk to incorporate any of his dry wit into a comeback, so he settled with, "Sod off, Jeremy."_

_Jeremy tossed his head back, drinking more of the liquor that was held loosely in his hand. He looked down again at the Fiat, and at James, who was now sitting on the car's bonnet, his legs spread slightly. "That car is so ugly," Jeremy said with a blank expression, "It makes you look handsome."_

_James said, "Handsome? I'm chuffed." He scooted further backwards onto the bonnet of his Fiat so his back pressed against the windscreen. He eyed Jeremy carefully, watching as the larger man stared at the once again empty glass in his hand, seeming confused as if it had never been empty before. "More?" James suggested. He had plenty stashed away for times of need._

_Jeremy shrugged, and was almost immediately occupied with James' Rolls Royce, or one of them at least. James was too preoccupied to note which one, because soon he too finished the rest of his alcohol and instantly forgot where it had gone. He stared at his glass dumbly._

_From across the garage, Jeremy spoke. "Have you got a hammer somewhere in here?"_

_He sure had. James arranged his assortment of hammers horizontally according to length and vertically according to material used to make the handle. "Yeah, on the far wall," he replied, gesturing to the collection with his empty glass. "What do you need a hammer for?"_

_Jeremy returned, holding a mid-sized hammer with a sturdy, metal handle. Rather than replying, he placed it on the bonnet of James' Panda and averted his gaze to James, expressionless. "Have you got lubricant?"_

_James fidgeted, blushing. "I have."_

A headache pierced the sides of James' head. He'd managed to drag himself out of his bed and pick up Jeremy's underwear from the ground. He held the shorts in his hands and rubbed the soft, white fabric between his fingers. He was thinking many insightful, reflective thoughts, but they were indistinguishable over the blurred commotion of his headache.

He drowsily sat back on his bed and placed the undergarments beside him. James sat and stared at his bare feet, waiting patiently for his headache to subside but it stubbornly showed no sign of doing so.

James felt the need to do what he always did at the time of a hangover: drink more. However, he continued to ache as a repercussion of the past night's events, and he was too knackered to rise and move about.

He was blinded at the reoccurring memory of Jeremy's eyes: their drowsy appearance but devout sternness, the fortitude of an army man hidden beneath the sleepiness of a smoker. And their color: the hazy, blue-grey hue which James adored. It reminded him of Bristol's sky in the winter.

The lust and admiration he held for Clarkson's eyes was just another feeling added to the mess of emotions May had already been feeling. James was unsure why he was torturing himself like this.

To top it all off, a wave of nausea flushed through James' insides, and he could taste the sick waiting to regurgitate itself up and out of his throat. The flavor wasn't pleasant, and neither was the situation he was in.

James lay back on his bed, beside Clarkson's undergarments, and cussed silently to himself, staring up at the dull, spinning ceiling.

***

"_I dunno about this…" James frowned as his jeans were being tugged off. _

_Jeremy said nothing as he tossed the pants to the cold floor of James' garage._

_Helplessly, James watched as Clarkson coated the handle of the hammer with the greasy sexual lubricant, squeezed out of a tube which had previously been unopened (James had been saving the lube for a special occasion, that of which hadn't occurred since the day he bought it twelve years ago)._

_Strangely, the fear that lube had an expiration date was the only thing going through James' mind as Jeremy took May's camouflage-colored undergarments off, leaving James half-naked and uncomfortable. James' eyes widened as Jeremy cupped a hand around James' exposes testicles, holding James at his mercy. The light grip of Jeremy's greasy hands around his balls automatically made James go hard, for he hadn't received attention down there for quite a while._

_Jeremy made eye contact. "Spread your legs," he ordered, finally speaking, and James mindlessly obliged. James was too nervous to meet eyes with Clarkson, and he also was distracted by the lube-coated hammer which was gripped tightly in Jeremy's free hand._

_James fidgeted, uncomfortable with his bare arse on the cool Fiat and the pulsating length between his legs. He blinked, and his eyes met Jeremy's. James blushed as words slid out of Clarkson's mouth in a deep, smooth tone, "Relax, James."_

_And James did; he closed his eyes and relaxed. But he soon tensed up again after opening one eye and watching the hammer move towards his arse. Fortunately, Jeremy was holding it by its head. Unfortunately, it was far too late to protest._

_When the handle of the hammer penetrated James, his eyes squeezed shut again. Coated with lube, it slid deep into him and rammed against his prostate, sending a wave of pain through his body. When James opened his eyes in alarm, he found them blurry with a flood of tears. James also realized he was gripping, with both hands, Jeremy's shoulders. May figured he was probably hurting Clarkson by digging his nails into Jeremy's broad shoulders. James ceased to care, as he was more focused on the fiery foreign object wedging itself inside of him._

_Nevertheless, this excited James and he felt a familiar tingling sensation in his pelvis and, despite the pain, was blissfully near blowing his load. He tried hard to contain himself, in fear of frightening Jeremy, but the added pleasure of the burning hammer being twisted inside of him combined with the feel of Jeremy's rough hands fondling his testicles – it was too much for James. Slowly, James began to leak pre-cum, but to his relief, Jeremy lowered his head and licked it off._

_James was grateful for this, and for everything. It had been a long time._

James rested his head miserably on the cool seat of his toilet. Dry heaving had gotten him nowhere. Moving caused him pain so he just knelt there before his toilet, and at this point he was eager to sick up.

Suddenly, his doorbell rang. This was the worst time for company. James, figuring it was a solicitor or his daily post, didn't move from his spot on the bathroom floor since he couldn't be bothered. But the bell rung again and the sound of it echoed through James' empty house, bouncing off its clean walls and worsening James' blinding headache. This was then followed by an incessant, repeated stab of the culprit's finger on the bell, which meant it must have been Hammond.

James managed to get himself up from off the floor. His stomach overturned within him as he walked to his front door, opening it wearily, to find, as suspected, Richard Hammond.

Richard was dressed casually. His ill-fitting black leather jacket was slung coolly over a fitted white t-shirt, his stonewashed jeans hung slackly at his hips, and his black Converse were loosening at the laces in their typical tradition of becoming untied. His hair was in its usual untidy mess, but apart from the bedhead Hammond was happily awake, baring his pearly whites in a slender grin at the sight of his mate. He uttered a beaming, "Hello," as he peered up at James.

But Richard's grin quickly became nonexistent as he observed the state James was in. His immediate reaction was to mutter something along the lines of, "You alright, mate? You don't look well." He said this with hint of both curiosity and concern.

James didn't answer him and simply stepped out of the way, silently allowing Richard inside his home. James wasn't sure why he let Richard into his house. May could hardly stand upright, and he still baffled at how he ceased to cry thus far.

James' lack of a reply concerned Richard further. After entering James' house and watching James shut the door behind him, Richard stared up at James, waiting politely for him to say something.

James chose to ignore the question and instead ask one of his own. "What brings you here?" he managed to croak out, trying to make his suffering as less obvious to Richard as possible.

Hammond was disappointed that he didn't get a proper response out of James, but answered the question nonetheless. "We're filming today, remember?" he asked matter-of-factly. "I came to drive you." His tone of voice aggravated James, but for no particular reason. James just wanted to rid his home of the whinging, midland accent. He wanted to be alone again.

Clearly James was in no mood for filming, and he wasn't in much of a mood for Richard Hammond, either. But James' vocation called upon him and, against his will, he was required to respond.

James let out a sigh, a soft one so Richard wouldn't notice. He hoped to himself that this would go fairly well, but somehow he knew it wouldn't. "Alright. I'll have to get ready, then." The foul whiskey aftertaste was rancid on James' tongue and he suspected his breath not to smell too great either. He was still clad in rugged sleepwear and was desperate for a shave. "You'll be here a while."

That eased a bit of a chuckle out of Richard. James was proud of himself for his addition of humor, no matter how weak. He progressed to his bedroom but left his door open a sliver in case Hammond felt the need to communicate. Mercilessly, he did.

"We're testing the convertibles today, you know. And it's raining. Bugger, innit?" Hammond kicked his feet around, his sneakers squeaking on the polished times of James' floor. "We're gonna have to pick up Jeremy on our way out, by the way."

James cringed. There was that name again. _Jeremy_. Richard spoke the word with such ease but James found it difficult to hear. He somberly dressed himself in his blue- and silver-striped sweater and a pair of jeans. The sick feeling returned. Hammond continued to speak but May wasn't listening. He lugged himself into the bathroom so he could tend to his tousled hair and rancid-smelling breath.

As soon as James put his toothbrush into his mouth, he noticed in his peripheral vision that Richard had let himself into the bedroom. A wave of panic overtook James, but he soon realized with relief that the evidence scattered around the floor was rather light. Richard was likely not to notice.

Also, Hammond was preoccupied with James' cat. The cat had always been particularly fond of Hammond, particularly Hammond's cologne, but Richard himself was always an animal lover and it was plainly obvious. When the cat leapt onto James' bed for attention, Hammond gently stroked the pet down the length of her back and under the scruff of her neck. She turned her tail up, purring in response.

But Richard, mercilessly, averted his gaze to the floor and examined the mess that was scattered erratically around James' room. "James…" he began curiously, fixing his eyes to something he'd seen. James immediately tensed up, knowing this wasn't going to be good. Hammond inquired, "Why are Jeremy's undergarments on your bed?"

And there it was. James' heart sunk. He was slightly alarmed by the question but he'd expected it. He spit the foamy toothpaste out of his mouth, then snatched a handful of water from the tap and rinsed his mouth out. But even after stalling, Hammond still wanted an answer. James supposed it was daft to answer the question truthfully and pointless to lie to Hammond, so in the end James said nothing.

It seemed as if Richard expected there to be no answer, because he elaborated. "What, Jeremy came over here some time last night, dropped off his underwear and then left? Is that what happened? Seems unlikely." James cringed as he heard the amused tone in Hammond's voice. Hammond sat down on James' bed and the cat leapt off in alarm. "Are you gonna keep silent or are you going to tell me, mate?"

James' immediate reaction was to remain quiet. But James soon had a thought, and he found it necessary to vocalize it. He turned around so he could speak to Richard. "A better question is, how do you know that those belong to Jeremy?" James stood in the doorway to his bathroom and glared in suspicion at the smaller man, pursing his lips slightly.

Hammond broke into a grin. "They say 'J. Clarkson' along the tag, how do you _think_ I know they're his?" James' plan had failed. He swallowed hard. Richard's smile faded. "James… what is it you aren't telling me? I am your mate, right? I won't overreact. I'm just curious."

James' throat tightened. "It's difficult to explain. It was just something stupid he and I did and I'd really like to forget about it but I can't." Of all times, then came the waterworks. James tried to rid of them by pawing casually at his eyes, but they were worse than he'd thought and the tears wouldn't go away. He felt foolish for tearing up and couldn't find the cause of it, but he hated himself for it. He didn't cry often, but he definitely didn't want to in front of Hammond.

"If you don't want to talk about it," Hammond said softly, "I respect that. I'll question no further. But if you do wanna talk about it, now or ever, I'm here. Okay?"

James fidgeted. That was quite nice of Hammond. But instead of saying 'thank you', James dumbly stated, "Okay." This was daft of him as well, but as he looked to Hammond and saw those endearing, brown eyes glittering merrily back at him, James knew his feeble message had gotten through.

James took a breath. "You're a good mate, you know that?" James wanted to say this with a smile but he couldn't manage one. He rubbed his wet eyes again, as this entire episode caused him to become emotional. He figured the massive hangover was making him unusually sensitive.

"Yes," said Richard, but then he caught himself. "I mean, I know. And you are too." Hammond blushed a little at his mistake and shuffled his feet in embarrassment.

The two sat in a comforting, well-deserved silence as the peaceful moment was shared between the men.

"James?" cooed a smirking Hammond as he shuffled his feet again.

James took a breath in yet another attempt to calm himself. "What?"

"Have you got a hammer?"


End file.
